Her Super New Job

From Blushes 40

The moment he saw her he felt the urge, the compulsion. Hitting him almost like a physical thing. He had felt it before, with certain girls, young women, felt that need to do it; but never with the same intensity as with this girl who walked into the room to sit down opposite. And together with this urge, the need, which had the adrenalin suddenly throbbing through his veins, was his head telling him: You can. You’ll be able to. With this one.

That was ridiculous. With a girl working for you, you had to be even more careful. Sexual harassment: it got headlines almost like murder these days. And Women’s Lib. A man could be crucified. It was ridiculous. But in his head it was also saying: Bugger that. Ninety per cent of them wouldn’t say a word. Ninety per cent probably. Not if it’s the boss. With a good job, a good salary, that she couldn’t bear to give up.

It was a good job. And he could afford to offer a highly attractive salary with the business doing so well. Estate agents in the South East could hardly not do well these days, even if you only came in the office three days a week. But he’d be in the office more than that, every possible moment… with this coming in. This young woman sitting opposite with that so-delicious, slightly nervous look. In the office and out to properties. He could see himself… because he would have to take her round at first, as she was new to the business. She was new and it was ridiculous to think of employing her, that girl yesterday had all the qualifications. Ah yes, but she hadn’t done anything to him, got his blood throbbing — got it already throbbing into a certain part of his anatomy. Doing it. Here in the office. And out, in a client’s house, an empty property: the bedroom say… he already had a cane, bought surreptitiously in one of those shops a year ago…

Concentrate. Control your mind. He looked down again at her papers, forcing his mind on the words, on her application form. Susan Margaret Hillway. Age 21. Married. (At 21!) Maiden name: Canleigh. Previous experience: Nothing very much; secretarial mostly. But he wasn’t concerned, with this great need, about that. Previous experience: New words appears on the form: State if your previous employers have ever caned you. On your bare bottom? Describe the positions (in detail). No. Don’t let your mind wander. Concentrate.

He looked up. To meet her eyes. Large, deep blue and evidently anxious. Naturally. At an interview, for a job that you no doubt dream of getting but for which you are aware you have virtually no qualifications. You would be nervous, desperate to please. Are you desperate to please, Mrs Hillway? Then stand up. Slip down your knickers. Lift that skirt and arrange your bare bottom over that chair…

Stop. Stop fantasising. But it didn’t have to be fantasy. He… could do it. Concentrate. The interview. A question. The question comes from some lusting recess of his mind. ‘You’re… ah… only 21, Mrs Hillway. And married. Family responsibilities… could be a problem?’

‘No!’ The full pink mouth eager to refute whatever the interviewer has in mind. ‘I… we’ve no children of course.’ Is she flushing? At the thought of the man sitting across from her picturing what she does every night? Vigorous humping. In a variety of immodest positions perhaps? Is that what we do, Mrs Hillway? What hot young wives need, Mrs Hillway, to go with that hot humping is a hot dose of the cane. ‘I mean we… I haven’t been married long,’ she adds.

‘I was thinking of out-of-normal office hours,’ he says, in serious tones. A man concerned only with the efficient running of his business, who could not conceivably be picturing the delicious applicant being screwed by her husband — or being caned (and screwed?) by himself. ‘After 5 o’clock and maybe at the weekend from time to time. Also perhaps occasionally away from home.’ Though he couldn’t easily think of a legitimate reason why. ‘Meetings etc.,’ he added.

‘Oh that’s no problem. Really.’ The pretty face has almost lost its flush with this veering away from potentially embarrassing matters. She crosses her legs: not coquettishly, simply a reflex action, a nervous reaction. His eager eyes observed the slim knees beneath her smart interview skirt. Tights? Probably. He’d make her wear nylons. A suspender belt. Perhaps even no knickers. He shifts his own legs, easing pressure. ‘Hmmmm…’ A man judiciously weighing weighty matters.

The feeling of power. Over this delectable young woman. Even forgetting the cane for the moment, or making her come to the office without knickers. Power as she sat here, with this juicy, well-paid job to dangle in front of her. He could sense her nervousness, her excitement. The possibility of dream becoming reality. He could probably say it right now. You can have the job, Mrs Hillway. But first of all I need to do a test. I want you to stand up and take off your knickers… you couldn’t say that. Yes you could. If you had the nerve. Just say it. It’s a test. If you can’t accept it — OK. I’ve got lots of other girls desperate for this job as you can imagine. And of course I never said that. Did I? Smiling at her confusion. Yes you could do it, men probably did it all the time. Either a girl accepted and got the job or she didn’t. Either way you simply denied it had happened, that you could never have suggested such a thing.

He would do it. Not today though. After she’d started. As soon as she’d started, when she was on probation.

He produced a little smile. Controlling with an effort his own excitement, nervousness even. ‘Well, Mrs Hillway… Your qualifications for this position are not good of course…’ Meeting the big blue eyes and seeing dawning disappointment. An anxious moistening of the generous pink-lipsticked mouth. Did that lovely mouth suck her husband’s cock? And would she perhaps… perform a similar pleasure for her employer? After a caning?

‘You would need a lot of training,’ he continued, in grave tones. ‘Mmmm… However, I think we might…’ The violet-blue eyes are suddenly sparkling. The full lips parting slightly. In shocked delight. At what Mr Filford was saying…

’Of course there would be… a probationary period. At the beginning.’

‘Yes, Yes, Mr Filford. Of course. Thank you… I’ll really…’

What would she really? He didn’t hear or she didn’t complete it. He was standing and so was she. Letting him see again the swell of her tits in the tight suit jacket. The length of her thighs in the equally tight skirt. And round behind… the real prize. The urge came again to do something right now. Grab her. Grab her skirt off. He slid his hand in his pocket, to disguise the state he was in. Be sensible. Monday, when she started. He could start something then. Make it clear he was going to want… certain things. Right now…

Something at least. A little appetiser. Upstairs, to the main office. Would she like to see the main office? Of course. And of course ushering her forward, to go first. Up the rather narrow and steepish stairs. While he… had a chance to really see it, enjoy it. Her flanks flexing in the tight skirt. The ripe cheeks, firm muscle overlaid with soft feminine tissue. Left and right tensing and relaxing above the smart black high heels and the no doubt tights that would soon be seamed nylons. He could see the line of her knickers. The slight but unmistakeable indentation of the knickers’ hem, thrown into relief; left, then right, as her hams worked. A modest knicker-line, properly enclosing the cheeks of her bottom. Modest knickers that would have to be modestly taken down. Or that, she would be told, would not be needed. Monday…

----//----

‘Monday! I start Monday!’ Her voice sounded incredulous, as if she still couldn’t believe it. She had repeated it to herself all the way back on the bus, glancing around at the few other passengers as if they too must be creatures of her dream. Her dream that she had got this job, that she had been convinced she hadn’t a chance of. Home and still in her dream but now trying to concentrate on getting something ready for their meal, when David got home. And here he was, in the dream with her. Grabbing him. Breathing it into his ear. ‘Monday! I’ve actually… got the job. If I’m not dreaming. Say I’m not dreaming, David.’

David said, ‘Tremendous! Fantastic!’ Also, ‘I told you, didn’t I?’ I said you had a really good chance and I didn’t know what you were getting so uptight about. But it’s really fantastic all right. What was it like: the interview?’

The interview, she said, still breathless, went like a dream. Well he had queried that she didn’t have any direct experience but that wouldn’t be a problem. On-the-job training and she would learn as she went along. You won’t find it a problem, he had said. He was really nice; Mr Filford. Filford and Billingsworth only there wasn’t a Mr Billingsworth now. ‘Mr Filford… oh sort of ordinary I suppose: But he seems really nice… and he won’t mind helping me, he said. Seeing that I learn the ropes. Oh it’s… I still can’t believe it.’

David said why didn’t they go out to eat, to celebrate, but she had prepared something, in spite of her feet seeming to be inches off the floor. ‘We can have a bottle of wine, though,’ Susan said. And added coyly. ‘And we could always have an early night.’ Because she had that feeling. Right now, and would probably have it even more after a glass of wine. Wanting sex. With all that tension, the apprehension, now gone she really felt like it. She didn’t always, sometimes not when David did. She would usually agree and let him but doing it when you didn’t feel like it wasn’t very nice. But now… she could feel her body almost craving it. With this fantastic job… now here.

And so they did. An early night. And almost immediately sexual intercourse. Nothing exotic, Susan would not want that. None of the sexual gymnastics that Arthur Filford might like to imagine. Just… being filled. Transported. And thinking as she was, partly at least, of the super, super job. Of Mr Filford even. Arthur Filford who, at that moment, in his own home a few miles away, in his sitting room, was looking abstractedly at the wall and flexing a rattan cane in his hands. His wife had gone up to bed. ‘I’ll be up shortly,’ he had told her. He was thinking of course of his new employee. Thinking of her bare bottom. Which was going to feel the sharp impact of what he now held in his hands. Thinking also that she was probably at this moment in bed, screwing like a monkey in celebration of having got her job…

----//----

Monday morning. That bus again only this time a lot more crowded as it is rush hour. David’s job is in the opposite direction so he can’t drive her but the crowded bus is not a problem when she is starting her super new job; anyway it’s only today, tomorrow her own car will be back from servicing. Susan has had the weekend to think about it, come down to earth a bit, but now it is Monday and she is actually starting… her heart is thumping again. A smart, business-like dress under her light coat, the weather forecast spoke of rain later. The morning is cool but she doesn’t feel it, striding briskly the five-minute walk at the other end to Filford and Billingsworth’s. She is right on time: 8.45. Mr Filford, though, is already here. His eyes smiling as he greets her. Taking her coat. Remarking on the weather; and has she had a good weekend? Yes, Mr Filford is as she remembers him at the interview. A pleasant, friendly man. ‘How about a cup of coffee?’ he asks. Yes, how fortunate she is…

There are two others who work in the office: Bob Tayling, thirtyish, who also handles properties, and a secretary, Mrs Betty Smith, who is somewhat older. They both get in about nine and Mr Tayling almost immediately goes out again, to see some properties. Mrs Smith has a little office of her own, so Susan is left alone with her employer in that large room upstairs. Mr Filford explains that they have only recently moved in and there is more furniture to come in, filing cabinets, and easy chairs etc at one end for clients. He opens the one cabinet that the room at present possesses and takes out folders of papers. Residential properties. They sit down at Mr Filford’s desk as he begins talking…

It is a pleasant day, an exciting day, this first Monday. A day full of new and exciting things: learning the work from Mr Filford, and in the afternoon going out with him to look at some properties; being taken by him to the pub at lunchtime. All in all a super first day, as she tells David when they get home after work. A day completely devoid of anything remotely unpleasant. Because Arthur Filford finds… that you can’t simply tell a young woman to take her knickers off; he is going to do a test. Or at least he can’t. Perhaps some employers can: yes, he is quite prepared to believe that some do. But when it comes right down to it… No.

So does this mean then…? What it means is that Susan Hillway has had a most pleasant start to her new job. No more than that. Arthur Filford, not particularly pleased with himself, is racking his brains…

Tuesday is very much like Monday, another really good day, but Wednesday… is not. It starts all right and Susan is feeling an extra frisson of excitement because today she is going out to see a property by herself rather than with Mr Filford as she has on Monday and Tuesday. The property will be empty and Mr Filford gives her the keys.

‘Don’t lose it,’ he says, smiling. ‘That’s the house agent’s biggest crime of course: losing the client’s keys.’

Susan laughs — but that is what she does. Gets to the house and reaches in her handbag and… no keys. With panic rising she takes everything out, then delves in the pockets of her coat. NO. They have disappeared. Oh Christ! Feeling sick she goes back to the car. Perhaps they have fallen out on the seat, the floor. No. Nothing. She is sweating.

Susan hasn’t actually lost them of course. Mr Filford has simply removed the keys from her handbag. Watched her put them in her bag and then when she was out of the room taking them out. Praying then she wouldn’t check until she was out of the office…

She can hardly bear to face him. Especially when he made the particular point of telling her. She has the desperate urge to just drive off, in the opposite direction to Filford and Billingsworth’s, but she can’t do that, she has to face the music. How could she have lost them?

‘I just don’t know…’ she shakes her head despairingly. Standing in front of him, at the side of his desk, twisting the strap of her handbag in her fingers. Her face is red, she feels like bursting into tears. ‘I… put them… in my bag.’

Arthur Filford purses his lips. What he wants to say is: Go and lock the door and then come back here and take all your clothes off. I am going to give you a taste of the cane. Yes, that would be nice but of course it is not the way to handle it. He shakes his head, his face serious.

‘This is most unfortunate, Susan. Most unfortunate. As it happens we’ve got a second set, but if we hadn’t…’ Another grave shake of his head. ‘And I did make the point of warning you. It can only be carelessness. Gross carelessness.’

She dabs at her eyes. They are sparkling. Tears. Arthur Filford eyes her. She looks absolutely delicious in this wretched state. A green-and-blue printed dress today with a broad white belt round her slim waist emphasising the full thrust of her tits above it. She is on the brink: for two pins she’ll break down and be sobbing. Should he… do that trick one more time? Tomorrow. Or start some action now? Not tell her to get that dress off, and her knickers, though he’d dearly love to. But… something.

‘I’m afraid you’re not coming up to my expectations, Susan.’ This time an actual tear does roll down her cheek. She wipes at it. The full-lipped mouth opens in a sort of sob.

‘I… I just don’t know… how…’

‘Carelessness, Susan. Forgetfulness. What you need is a reminder. So you’re not forgetful about such things. And it is crucial.’ He picks up a plastic ruler which is lying on his desk. Arthur Filford’s heart is suddenly thumping in his chest. He stands up. He is going to say it. He forces a smile, as if it is really a joke.

‘Hold out your hand. I’ll give you a reminder. Then we’ll forget it.’

Susan wipes her eyes again, and looks at Mr Filford. He’s joking… but he means her to do it. Blinking, she brings her hand out. Palm upwards. Mr Filford is still smiling. Raising the ruler, and…

She lets out a shocked yell. She was expecting something like a light tap, because it was only a joke. But Mr Filford has brought the ruler down hard, with a vicious jerk of his wrist as it made contact. The pain across the centre of her palm… is really killing. She sucks her breath in, whimpering. Clutching the hand to her. Gasping. Through the hot pain she becomes aware that Mr Filford’s arm is round her waist.

‘Didn’t hurt, did it? Not really.’ The arm round her waist squeezes. He lets go. ‘Here, let’s have a look.’ Taking her hand. The palm is bright red where the ruler has viciously sliced down. It is throbbing, with a sort of half-paralysed feel to it. ‘Nothing too much,’ is Mr Filford’s verdict. He lets go, with a nervous little laugh. His hand slaps her bottom.

Briskly Arthur Filford moves to sit down again at his desk. His hand can still feel her bottom, almost like an electric shock. And bringing the ruler down on her hand like that, that was electric too. He feels almost sick with excitement. He has crossed the barrier: the barrier that seemed at times insurmountable. He looks up, at the still gasping Susan. Forces another smile.

‘All right. We’ll forget it now. It’s over. Here,’ reaching for some papers and holding them out, ‘take a look at these. Tell me what you think.’

He takes her to the pub again at lunchtime. Susan’s head is in a whirl, as it has been for the rest of the morning, ever since… her hand still stings, and there is a dark red mark across it now. Did Mr Filford mean to hit her as hard as that… or was it an accident, he didn’t realise? She hasn’t been able to concentrate on anything, her mind has kept going back to that horrendous cut of the ruler. But perhaps he didn’t really mean it, he is taking her out to the pub, is chatting in a friendly way. Forget about it, she tells herself. It’s over. Mr Filford said that.

‘Let’s have a look,’ he says in the pub. ‘Your hand.’ Taking it, opening the fingers. Eyeing the red stripe. He looks at her and grins. ‘Did it hurt?’

‘Yes,’ she says in a low whisper. ‘Yes.’ Taking her hand away. Not wanting anyone else to see it.

Mr Filford moves closer. Turning, close to her ear, he says, ‘Well, we don’t want any more carelessness. Next time, it’ll be something else.’ He moves his head away, to glance round the room, then comes back. In her ear he says, ‘The cane. Across the seat of your knickers.’

He picks up his glass. Turns to look at her. Smiling. The words dip and roll in her head. It’s a joke. Mr Filford is smiling. She tries to form a smile of her own but her mouth feels all trembly. She could more easily cry than smile. He is joking. But that ruler… that was no joke. The red stripe across her palm, which if she’s not careful David will see, that is no joke. She lifts her glass. Her hand is trembling like her mouth. Taking a drink from her glass is suddenly not a simple operation. Liquid dribbles from the side of her mouth. Flushing, she grabs for her napkin. Mr Filford is eyeing her, still smiling.

Susan doesn’t tell David. How can she? You can’t tell your husband your boss has hit you across the hand with a ruler and you’ve still got the mark there. Just as you can’t tell him he said the next time he’s going to cane you across the seat of your knickers. Even if it was a joke. She does her best, when David asks if she’s had a good day. ‘Yes. Super.’ Her voice sounds artificial, extremely unconvincing, but David doesn’t seem to notice.

He can’t pull that trick again — or at least not right away. He needs something, though, he has to build immediately on this fantastic start. Because Arthur Filford can sense that he can now go all the way. He can see she’s nervous when she comes in the next morning. Has she perhaps told her husband? No, of course she hasn’t; and by not doing so it is already a thing between just the two of them, a complicity a deux. He greets her, smiling, a man who is prepared to forget his employee’s unfortunate shortcoming of yesterday. Hands her a folder of papers.

‘Have a look at these, Susan. Then put them in the cabinet. You know our system now.’

Yes, she knows the filing system, Mrs Smith has explained it. Susan takes the papers and goes to her desk. Is she going to be allowed out today, on her own? Trusted with a client’s keys? She goes through the papers, making notes, then takes them to the cabinet, carefully putting them in the correct position. By now it is coffee time and Susan goes down to have a cup with Mrs Smith. Mr Filford says he is too busy at the moment for coffee. Because of that Susan only stays for ten minutes. When she gets back…

‘Susan…’ It is clear at once from Mr Filford’s voice that something is wrong. He is standing by the cabinet. ‘Come here!’ Yes something is wrong. She almost stumbles forward. ‘What is this?’ He is holding up the papers she had. ‘It took me five minutes to find them. They were in completely the wrong place.’

It is impossible. Unless she is going mad. As she stands there looking blankly at the open cabinet Mr Filford’s hand sharply smacks her bottom. Susan gives a shocked gasp. And then his hand is there, holding her bottom. Gripping one cheek through her thin dress.

‘Didn’t I tell you, young woman? That we cannot tolerate this sort of carelessness.’

She feels… her head is going round and round. The papers… and Mr Filford’s hand gripping her bottom. She feels faint. The hand lets go… and gives her bottom another sharp smack. ‘You know what I told you, Miss. What we’d do next time.’

Yes she knows what he said, in the pub. But it was a joke. He can’t… And anyway those papers… she knows she put them… there is the feeling of reality sliding away from her, she is losing her grip on it. But Mr Filford’s hand has left her bottom… and is gripping her arm. That is real. ‘Come on.’

He is half-dragging her, her high-heels stumbling on the carpet, over to his desk. She hears herself yelp out, in protest. Because in this unreality she knows what he is going to do. What he said: that joke. It may be a joke but… Mr Filford is going to… she yelps out again when they reach the desk but it does no good. He is pushing her down. Face-down across the top. This can’t be happening. But the cold, hard top of the desk is real enough. And Mr Filford… is dragging up her dress. His hands on her legs, her thighs. ‘Keep still! Don’t you move.’ She can’t move anyway, her body feels devoid of any strength, beyond her control. Because this is quite unreal. Mr Filford… is pulling down her tights. It is quite impossible. His hand is there, on her bare thighs, her tight knickers. And then…

‘Aaayyyyaahhh…!’

He has caned her. Hit her hard across the seat of her knickers, stretched skin-tight in her bent-over position. The pain is killing; and there is also of course the impossible awfulness of this: being caned on her bottom, her dress up, her tights down. Because with that killing cut the sense of unreality has completely gone. It is real all right. Her scream… it was partly muffled by the table so maybe they haven’t heard downstairs. She is making whimpering sobbing sounds now. From above her Mr Filford’s voice says, ‘One more. And keep it quiet.’ She gasps a frantic. ‘Nooo… ooo.’ But…

‘Aaayyhhh…!’

‘OK. Get up now.’ Her bottom… it is absolutely white hot. Great waves of pain where the second one has landed almost on top of the first. ‘Get up and pull your tights up,’ Mr Filford says. ‘Before someone comes in.’

She is gasping for breath. Fighting the sobs. She blinks eyes that are filled with hot tears. Through the distorting tears she sees it. The cane. Which Mr Filford has twice whipped breath-stoppingly in across her poor bottom. He is taking it over to the cabinet. Sticking it down behind. Coming back.

‘Perhaps in future we’d better do it when everyone is out. We wouldn’t want you to be embarrassed by someone coming in here.’

Susan is struggling with her tights under her dress. Her face is scarlet. The initial sharp sting in her bottom has changed into a heavy, sickening ache. She won’t be able to sit down… How could he…

‘And those tights,’ Mr Filford says. ‘Not convenient for this sort of thing. I think we’d better have you wearing stockings in future.’

What is he saying? Her head is still full of the enormity of what Mr Filford has done. What he is saying and the implication gradually gets through to her. Mr Filford is planning… to do this again…

‘No… !’ Shaking her head wildly. She is trembling all over. Mr Filford comes close. His arm comes round her slim waist.

‘Don’t be silly, Susan. Of course you have to have it. We agreed, didn’t we? If you make some careless mistake. Because you do seem to be very careless.’ His hand squeezes soft flesh. But don’t worry, the others aren’t going to know. We can do it after work. Or we could do it in a client’s house if no one’s in.’

She can’t believe it. It’s not possible. She must simply tell him… Susan tries to. To tell him that he simply can’t do that ever again. But the words don’t come out very coherently. And Mr Filford is waving his hands dismissively, saying it is over. For the moment at least. Telling her to go over to her desk and let him have her comments on these papers. And she is doing that. Taking the papers over to her desk. Sitting painfully down on her smarting bottom. She shouldn’t do this, she should go back over to his desk and say it again, so that he has to take notice. ‘Look: you can’t ever do that again.’ But she isn’t, she is trying to read the papers, only her eyes won’t focus. And there is still that tell-tale catch, a sob, every now and then in her breathing. All right; she’ll say it at lunchtime.

Susan tries to, when Mr Filford takes her to the pub again. He won’t listen, won’t take any notice. ‘Look, it’s not a joke,’ she half mumbles. It is no use. ‘Look at me,’ he tells her. She doesn’t want to but he insists. Mr Filford can have a hard, piercing look which she doesn’t like meeting. ‘No, it isn’t a joke,’ he tells her, ‘and it’s not a joke that you’re careless. And if you’re careless I’m going to do it.’

Feeling impotent, that at any moment she may burst into tears, Susan says in a little-girl voice, ‘I… want… to resign.’ Mr Filford gives a snorting laugh and leans close.

‘Don’t be silly. Of course you don’t want to resign. Anyway you can’t, you’ve signed a contract. Look; be sensible. And if you’re careful and don’t do silly things I shan’t need to do it.’

The problem is that she’s not strong-willed, not forceful. Whereas Mr Filford is. There is nothing she can do; she can’t even insist on leaving. For the first time the thought comes that Mr Filford might have put those papers in the wrong place himself. No. He wouldn’t do that.

‘OK?’ he asks. ‘Here, let’s get you another drink.’ She shakes her head, as an indication of helplessness more than anything. She accepts another drink.

When Mr Filford brings the drinks back he takes out his wallet. Pulling out some notes. Grinning at her. ‘I want you to do some shopping, Susan. You can take off an hour or however long it takes.’

What he wants is for her to go and buy some stockings. Nylons. And a suspender belt. That’s what he wants her to wear to the office from now on.

‘Just in case we need…’

She tries to refuse. Mr Filford simply takes her bag and puts the notes in it. ‘Don’t be silly, Susan. You keep on being silly. There’s nothing strange about nylons; I happen to know that lots of girls wear them nowadays. Come on, drink up. I’ll expect you in an hour or so.’

What can she do? As Mr Filford with a little wave of his hand strides off towards the office. Susan is well aware that if she does what Mr Filford wants she will be acquiescing, accepting all this impossible, dreadful business. Refuse? She can’t, she can’t stand up to him. If she goes back without them he’ll probably march her back to a shop himself. Stand over her. She feels a desperate need to call David — or her mother. But what good will that do? What can she say: my boss is making me buy some nylons? It sounds ridiculous. Or: my boss has caned me. Taken my tights down and caned me. There is no way she can say that either.

She has been standing there forlornly, not far from the pub, for some minutes. A man who has been watching her comes across the road. ‘Hello, beautiful. Been stood up? Let me buy you a drink.’ She shakes her head fiercely and sets off, towards the shopping centre.

It doesn’t take an hour to buy four pairs of nylons and a suspender belt but there is no point hanging about, there is nothing else she wants to do. She has to go back, to Filford and Billingsworth, that super job which now gives her a sick feeling in her stomach to think about. She tries to think positive: if she doesn’t make careless mistakes Mr Filford won’t have any reason… or excuse…

‘OK?’ enquires Mr Filford. ‘Done your shopping?’ His eyes are bright as she enters the office, wishing she were a little mouse that could creep in unseen. She swallows, not answering, but she has the bag in her hand. ‘Let me see,’ says Mr Filford. ‘No; better, why don’t you put them on. Then we’ll see.’

Susan wants to protest, refuse. But what is the point. She has gone along with him and bought these things. Mr Filford is going to insist. He might even grab her and threaten to do it himself if she won’t.

‘Good. Come over here. And let me see.’ She has gone out, down the stairs to the toilet and come back up. Under her dress are a pair of the nylons and the suspender belt. Susan is not used to wearing nylons and it is a funny feeling, the nylon-tops tight at mid-thigh and above that her thighs bare. Mr Filford wants to see, wants to lift up her dress. That is not at all a reasonable request, in any other circumstances it would be ridiculous, unthinkable. But these aren’t ordinary circumstances that Susan has somehow allowed herself to get into. How has she got into a situation where Mr Filford can ask — or tell — her to lift her dress… and she has to? She doesn’t know, but… red-faced, she is lifting her dress.

‘Come on, right up.’ It is a white suspender belt which contrasts with the dark rims at the tops of the stockings and further up with the pale blue of her knickers. ‘Nice,’ Mr Filford says approvingly. ‘Now turn round. No, keep your dress up.’

They are seamed nylons, as he had specified. ‘Very nice. Well that’s what you’ll wear from now on, Susan. Where are those tights? Give them to me. I’ll dispose of them.’

----//----

Susan had ideas of hiding the nylons and suspender belt from David but he is home before her and she can’t immediately disappear. He puts his arms round her — hardly an unreasonable thing for a husband to do — and somehow… ‘What’s this?’ his hand has discovered a nylon-top.

Panic hits her — as if David has discovered incontrovertible evidence that she has been fucking her boss — or discovered that Mr Filford has caned her which seems just as bad. Somehow Susan keeps control. Nylons are not that unusual these days — as Mr Filford himself has said. She fends off David’s groping hand. ‘Oh… I just thought I’d try them.’ He’s not going to think it’s strange she should suddenly get them after starting at Filford and Billingsworth is he?

David is grabbing her skirt up to see the nylons. He thinks they’re sexy, as a lot of men do. He decides he wants to go upstairs, to bed. Right away. Susan wouldn’t normally agree to this (not that he normally wants it, it’s the nylons), but today… after all that happened. Yes. Sex is a huge release. She comes, in a big gasping orgasm, which is not at all like her.

Yes, sex is a release, but afterwards… what has happened. And tomorrow… she has to wear the nylons and suspender belt again. For Mr Filford. Who is going to… she tells herself he won’t do anything, as long as she’s careful and doesn’t make mistakes. But she knows she will. Through nervousness or whatever she’ll do something wrong. And then…

She can’t bear to think. She grabs David. She suddenly wants sex again. Grabbing for his penis. She’s not like this, never. He quickly becomes hard again. Mounts her. She is making gasping, mewling sounds. Afterwards she starts sobbing. David wants to know what’s wrong. She would love to tell him but there’s no question of that. Still sobbing she says ‘Nothing.’ Or tries to…

----//----

Mr Filford does it in the house of one of their clients the next day. A house that they go to see in the morning after coffee. Mr Filford has the keys. ‘I hope I don’t lose them!’ he says before they leave in his car. It’s meant as a joke. Susan forces a smile but she doesn’t feel like laughing. She is on tenterhooks and going out with Mr Filford to an empty house… when she arrived this morning after an awful night — lying away for hours — Mr Filford made her lift her skirt and show him. The nylons, suspender belt, her knickers. Why couldn’t she simply refuse. He can’t behave like that. Tell him a joke is a joke but it’s over. Instead of just… doing it. And then, being told that they are to go and see this house. She knows…

He does. He simply says it. When they are in the sitting room of the house. Grinning at her. ‘Shall we try it then, Susan? We’re not going to be interrupted here.’

She can pretend she doesn’t know what he’s talking about but that won’t do any good, and anyway Susan does know. She feels sick. She wants to run out, into the street. ‘NO!’ It is almost a scream. ‘No… please.’

Mr Filford just smiles. ‘Come on.’

‘NO. I… haven’t done anything.’

He says yes, he found some more papers wrongly filed this morning. He thinks she’s still being careless. She needs another reminder. Susan shakes her head. She is trembling all over. He can’t. From somewhere Mr Filford has produced a leather strap.

‘Come on. Bend over the table.’

Another hysterical shake of her head. ‘Bend over!’ Mr Filford rasps, whipping the strap down through the air. ‘Do it at once. Perhaps we’d better have your knickers down as well this time, Susan. Come on.’

And that is what he does. Gets Susan over the table. Grabs up her dress. Yanks down her knickers. Whips the strap in across her nude bottom. She squeals out at the stinging pain of the strap. Writhes and jerks her stricken bare bottom. The strap whips down again. And again. Producing more frantic squeals, more frenzied writhings. The writhing and jerking, the desperate squeals, are not stopping Mr Filford however. He is simply continuing, one arm round her waist, holding her in position, holding her dress up clear of her writhing bottom, while his other arm whips the strap in.

Susan can’t speak at the end of it. When Mr Filford finally decides she’s had enough. Awful gasping, sobbing sounds are coming out. She is all blocked up, can hardly breathe and there is no hope of forming intelligible words. Of saying what she wants to say.

‘Pull your knickers up,’ Mr Filford tells her. ‘And go and wash your face if you want to. Then we’ve got to look over this house, remember?’

It is some little time before Susan can trust herself to try to speak. After she has gone to the bathroom and washed her red face and had a drink of water and, with things clearing up slightly, taken some deep breaths. Then: ‘I’m g… going to… tell my husband.’ It doesn’t sound perfect but it is clear enough.

Mr Filford gives a little smile. ‘I… am… I really am…’

Mr Filford laughs his little laugh again. ‘Don’t be silly. Or are you going to tell him you agreed to it?’ He comes close and puts an arm round her.

‘Tell him you bought the stockings and suspender belt for your canings. Are you going to tell him that?’

The sobs are still coming at intervals. She twists away from him. His hand smacks her bottom and she gives a hysterical yelp. She won’t tell her husband. Will she? Arthur Filford is quite sure she won’t. Or 99 per cent sure. It is not wholly impossible that in a hysterical state… she could blurt it out. If she did of course…

Whipping her with the strap was the most fantastic, mind-zonking experience he has ever had. Even more fantastic than he had imagined it. Hitting her with the cane yesterday was fabulous but this time, with her bottom bare… But perhaps he shouldn’t have done it today; not taken her knickers down. Perhaps it was too soon: well, it’s only the second day, not counting Wednesday with the ruler across her hand of course. If he had waited until next week for the first knickers down… but against that you could argue it was best to do it today before the weekend. So that she doesn’t have all the weekend to get her resolve together. It is certainly better to have got this far, got her knickers down and strapped her bare bottom… as long as he hasn’t pushed too far too soon.

‘Come on.’ A nice reassuring, friendly voice. ‘Let’s get this house looked at.’

Susan gives Mr Filford a quick, still red-eyed look. Mr Filford who has unbelievably taken her knickers down and strapped her bare bottom. ‘I… am,’ she says, looking away. ‘I shall tell him. You can’t do that.’

Arthur Filford smiles. It is not a wholly confident, nonchalant smile. She is probably just saying it to reassure herself. But on the other hand… he experiences a slight flutter of panic. An enraged husband, a good bit younger than himself. Not to mention the other aspect. Sexual harassment. A most extreme example of it. Well, how would it look in the papers: house agent takes female employee’s knickers down and whips her bare bottom? These panicky thoughts serve only to bring his desire up again. For that superb bare bottom. He wants to do it again. NOW. Not only that but the other. Give her a fuck. Strap her bottom again and then get her on one of the beds upstairs and give her a really good fuck…

Arthur Filford controls these wild urges. With some difficulty. He’s done enough, perhaps more than enough, for today, this week. On Monday. He’ll have another good go on Monday.

If she’s in. If she comes in. If by then he hasn’t had a maddened Mr David Hillway on the phone, or round at his house. If he doesn’t get that and she comes in as normal on Monday… then whatever she says or protests the bottom line will be that she’s going to take it. The bottom line. She’s going to take it lying down. Bent over first… and then lying down. In here? Yes, it’ll still be empty next week. Yes in here.

Arthur Filford squeezes Susan’s arm. ‘I’m going to,’ she repeats, squirming away.